Wednesday, November 30, 2011

The Same Old Story
The pulps were dead. Comic books were dying. Now the writing business has turned deadly! When two men working for the same comic book company die under mysterious circumstances only two days apart, writer Max Wiser, son of a NYPD homicide cop, can’t help trying to find the story behind the story...and falling for the beautiful blonde with connections to both victims!

In My Shorts: Hitler's Bellhop and Other Stories
Six short stories by the author of Two Tales of Atlantis, including a savage look at the dark side of creativity (“Food for the Beast”) and the comedy screenplay that Jerry Lewis never wrote but might have (“Hitler’s Bellhop”), with stops along the way to fight vampire squirrels, live the life of a superhero, visit a graveyard, and bow before the zombie king.

Two Tales of Atlantis
Two stories by the writer/creator of DC Comics’ Arion, Lord of Atlantis. In “Walk Upon the Waters,” the sorcerer Thalis sails hostile seas in the last battle for Atlantis. In “Passed Lives,” an aging peasant awakens in the middle of her life to realize she is Thalis’ reincarnated lover and leaves her family to go war to find him...and learn which of her two hearts she will follow.

Even if you could care less about me, how can you pass up a comic book featuring both Sergio and Peter, two MAD Magazine mainstays? And, while I'm at it, I recommend another Bongo title: Sergio Aragones Funnies, a monthly mag of mayhem and mirth, all by Sergio hisself.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Everybody else is having a holiday sale, so why shouldn't I? I've lowered the price of my novel, The Same Old Story on Amazon.com for the Kindle to 99¢. I hope you'll take advantage of my holiday-induced genorosity.

It's 1951 and the comic book industry is undergoing a recession that's sent half the writers and artists in New York to the streets scrambling for the work that remains. Among that number is writer Max Wiser, former pulp scribe and son of a legendary N.Y.P.D. homicide cop, on whose life Wiser based his bestselling pulp stories. When the industry's top writer dies in an accidental drunken tumble from a subway train that proves to have been murder, Max is plunged into a world of lies and conspiracy...discovering that there is often a fine line between real life and the pulp fiction around which he has built his life. Especially after the beautiful blonde mistress of the murdered man works her way into his life...and as the death toll mounts, Max Wiser learns that even in the cliche-ridden world of comics and the pulps, there's really no such thing as The Same Old Story...

Friday, November 25, 2011

A retailer friend tells me he's found a stash of the out-of-print ABSOLUTE MAD: 53 YEARS OF MAD MAGAZINE ON DVD-ROM, which includes every issue of the magazine from 1952-2006, over 600 issues, on a single disk. As I was DC Comics' in-house editorial liaison with the publisher of the disk I can vouch for its coolness (like, it allow you to actually fold-in Al Jaffee's Fold-Ins!), and while supplies last, as they say, you can get a brand-new, in-the-box copy for $39.99, plus shipping.

It's Black Friday...buy a beloved MAD one the perfect Holiday Gift, right here on eBay!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

According to The New York Times' Book Section, the Archie: The Married Life graphic novel is a "Graphic Novel Worthy of Being A Gift." The article, "A Superhero For Your Stocking" by George Gene Gustines was published today and it reads something like this:

"Something exciting is happening in Riverdale, the longtime home of Archie Andrews. In THE MARRIED LIFE (Archie Comics, $19.99), written by Michael Uslan and Paul Kupperberg and illustrated by Norm Breyfogle, Archie has futures: one with Betty as his wife, the other with Veronica. It’s not all malt shops and sock hops: the gang must deal with a lousy economy, Veronica’s meddling father (in both plotlines) and the nagging thought that their best days may have been in high school."

We are in fine company with books like LIFE WITH MR. DANGEROUS, by Paul Hornschemeier, THE WALKING DEAD, by Robert Kirkman, GREEN RIVER KILLER: A TRUE DETECTIVE STORY by Jeff Jensen and Jonathan Case, MARVEL FIRSTS: THE 1960S, by Stan Lee, Jack Kirby et al, and others.

Monday, November 7, 2011

I'll be a guest at this weekend's upcoming NJ Comic Expo and Batvention, celebrating the 45th anniversary of the Batman TV show at the Teaneck Armory, Teaneck NJ, November 12 - 13.

Also appearing are a beevy of fabulous femmes from the Batman TV show, including Catwoman Lee Meriwether, Terry Moore, Sherry Jackson, Donna Loren, and others. And if that weren't cool enough, the Batmobile and Batcopter will be on display, and Saturday night the convention hosts a screening of the 1966 Batman movie, with Ms. Meriwether appearing to share her memories of working on that film.

On the comics side, guests include legendary Golden Age and Dondi artist, the delightful Irwin Hasen, DC VP and art director, the equally fabulous and delightful Mark Chiarello, writer Danny Fingeroth (not so fabulous, but delightful nonetheless), artists Mark McKenna and Bob Wiacek, former DC writer and production manager, the legendarily fabulous Bob Rozakis, Joel Eisner (author of The Official Batman Batbook), and my pal Jim Beard, with whom I'll be appearing on a panel discussing Gotham City 14 Miles, the Sequential Arts book about the Batman TV show to which I contributed an essay.

I'll have a table so I'll be on hand both days to say hi, talk, sign, whatever. Hope to see you there!

Above was one of the best moments of the show for me (photo courtesy of Jack Harris). While I wasn't a member of the early-1970s group of young talent hired by DC Comics that became known as the DC Woodchucks, I was a fan on the fringe and friends with lots of these guys, and best pals with another Woodchuck, Paul Levitz. What's a Woodchuck? An explanation, courtesy of Bob Rozakis' blog, Anything Goes:

Back in the very early days of our careers at DC Comics, then VP/Production Manager Sol Harrison decided that we "kids" should put together a company-backed fanzine called Amazing World of DC Comics. He came to my desk and said, "Go get the rest of your pals and bring them to my office." So I went to my compatriots and said, "Sol wants to have a Junior Woodchucks meeting." I was making a joke, using the name of the faux-Boy Scouts that Huey, Dewey and Louie of Donald Duck fame belonged to. But the name stuck...and we became DC's Junior Woodchucks.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

I’ve written a new story for Richard Leider’s anthology, Hellfire Lounge 3: Jinn Rummy, published by Marietta Publishing, currently scheduled for Summer 2012 publication.

The theme is the jinn, or genies, and I went back to a character I had used in a previous story (which originally appeared in Moonstone Publishing’sVampires: Dracula and the Undead Legions, and is available in my eBook, In My Shorts: Hitler’s Bellhop and Other Stories on Amazon.com), Leo Persky, a.k.a Terrence Strange, intrepid reporter for the tabloid newspaper, Weekly World News.

Here’s the first 1400 words or so, which will either whet your appetite or confirm your worst fears...

Vodka Martini, Straight Up, Hold the Jinn

The first thing you’ve got to know is, I never intended to let this particular genie out of the bottle.

The second is, I’m not using that expression colloquially.

My name is Strange. Terrence Strange...which might mean something to you if you happen to be a reader of the supermarket tabloid, Weekly World News. If, on the other hand, you only know me from around the neighborhood supermarket near my West Twenty-Seventh Street residential hotel, then you would likely call me Persky. Or maybe even Leo, if I didn’t get on your nerves. As in Leo Persky. Age forty-seven. Five foot seven, one hundred and forty-two pounds of bespectacled, balding ink-stained wretch, or what the world calls a reporter. Of course, the ink stains are old, left over from an early age; nowadays I used a computer.

I’m called Strange for a lot of reasons, but the one that matters is that it’s my nom de plume, or pseudonym for those who prefer Latin over French, not to mention a family legacy. Most people know the News from casual perusals at the checkout lines at Ralph’s, Safeway, 7-11, and other fine retail establishments. There’s usually a little smirk on their faces as they flip through the stories of presidential consultations with extraterrestrial envoys and haunted toasters terrorizing a Cleveland suburb. You’re probably one of the smirkers, the ninety-eight percent or so of the thinking world who think we make this stuff up. But it helps people to believe that. I mean, how well would you sleep if you knew that the only thing that had driven back an invasion of the Pacific Northwest by a subterranean civilization of radioactive mole people was their genetic aversion to frothy coffee drinks?

We report the news, you decide.

Whatever gets you through the night.

What gets me through most nights is the History Channel and vodka. Which is not to say I’m addicted. I can turn off the TV, even in the middle of a documentary on Hitler’s Bunker (especially the ones that don’t even mention the time machine or der Fuhrer and his new bride’s attempt to escape into the future), and I’ve even been known to leave a bottle with some vodka in it. Not that you care about my “oh, the things I’ve seen!” rationalization to overdo it and treat my body like a temple to overconsumption and abuse. Werewolves and vampires, demons from hell, hideous mutations of science and nature, aliens whose concept of humanity reflected ours of the world’s bovine population, etcetera, etcetera, so on and so forth. It made great copy but didn’t do much for one’s psyche. Remember earlier I asked how well you’d sleep if you knew what was really going on? Well, I know, and the answer is: Not well.

But drinking alone in your room is bad. Standing up in front of a room full of strangers drinking bad coffee in a church basement and saying, “Hi, my name is Leo and I’m an alcoholic” bad. So I didn’t. I don’t even keep a bottle in a room. Sure, most drinking establishments closed at some point in the darkest of the dark night, but others don’t. Seeing as how I live more or less in the center of the universe as a resident of Manhattan Island, finding a drop to drink was seldom a problem at any hour.

The hour on the night in question happened to be three thirty-three in the ante meridiem. I had spent the previous four hours in my bed on the fourteenth floor of the Saint Stanislaw Hotel alternately tossing, turning, getting up to pee, watching TV, reading, peeing again, then trying to switch things up and make it interesting by turning first before I tossed, getting up somewhere in between to pee some more. But I knew no matter what I did, sleep was not in my immediate future.

I had spent the last five days on the road, on the trail of a serial killer working its way through the Midwest. My choice of pronoun is deliberate; my killer was neither a he nor a she, and not in an interesting Lifetime network ode to transgendered choice kind of way. This one wasn’t even human, but some entity from an alternate dimensional plane which could wear humans like a skin after consuming our tasty innards. Thirty-eight empty sacks of human flesh were found scattered across eleven states before some national crime computer finally got its algorithm in gear and put two and two together.

A tip from an FBI insider to my editor, the fabulous and scary Rob Berger, sent me scampering westward in time to almost become victim number forty-six. That I didn’t was only because of the dumbest of luck (the only sort I ever have, and thank goodness for that) and a conveniently placed chemical tanker truck bearing a yellow number four on its N.F.P.A. I.D. That’s the National Fire Prevention Association’s way of warning that this particular tanker carried materials capable of detonation and/or explosive decomposition or reaction at normal temperature and pressure. I made it my business to memorize their warning system and symbols. I have needed, on more than one occasion, something blown up or incinerated on a moments notice. Propane tanks available at every hardware, convenience, and big box store across the country were also convenient. It shouldn’t be any surprise how many of the icky things, natural and supernatural alike, are vulnerable to fire.

But that was all the boring “why” of my situation. All that really mattered was, I couldn’t sleep. So I finally got up, got dressed, and went out to a place I knew be open for an insomniac to grab a few belts to help rock himself to sleep.

Gentrification had found my neighborhood, but side streets of squalor managed to slip past the of architects imaginations and retained the previous century’s accumulation of filth and grime. The stately but hardly saintly Saint Stanislaw Hotel stood smack dab in the middle of one such block. It had opened its doors on April 14, 1912, the same day the Titanic was struck by a U.F.O. two hundred miles off the coast of Newfoundland. The fortunes of the old place sank about as quickly as the big boat. Most of its existence had been as a low rent residential hotel, but make no mistake, transients, as the hand painted sign hanging out front assured passersby, are welcome.

The Saint Stanislaw shared the dark little stretch between two major north/south Manhattan thoroughfares with a parking lot and a regularly rotating roster of storefronts for rent. A few perennials seemed to survive all economic conditions. There was Ralph’s Chinese Hand Laundry, where I send my shirts to be hand ruined, Koskiosko’s Kosher Kounter (Koskiosko’s ham and cheese on Challah with a kosher dill and a bag of chips is a delight and a steal at $3.99), three Korean nail parlors (Lee’s Sunshine Happy Rainbow Nails, the Original Lee’s Rainbow Sunshine Happy Nails, and Senior Lee’s Original Lee’s Happy Happy Double Rainbow Nail Spa), a shop selling typewriter ribbons (I don’t know to whom), a plumbing supply store open only to the trade, and two taverns, the Chelsea Inn and the aptly named Bucket of Blood (West), one on either side of an old upholstery shop that had been gated and its windows painted black since around the first time Gerald Ford tripped coming off of Air Force One. The Inn and the Bucket, both owned by the same dubious gent whose name appeared on the liquor licenses, closed at normal hours. But once the lights went off in the two licensed joints, they were switched on in the Black Hole, the unofficial name given the barebones afterhours drinking hole in the gated store that filled the hours when it was otherwise illegal to sell alcohol.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

I'm currently writing a novella for Ron Fortier's Airship27 based on the 1930s pulp magazine character, The Crimson Mask. Here's the opening section of a little something I like to call...

The Crimson Mask and the Medicine Man

The
first shot at 3:43 a.m. was easily mistaken for a backfiring truck.

Patrolman
Johnny “Potsy” O’Connor happened to be glancing down at his pocket watch when
he heard it. The sound did not alarm him, but it made him stop in his tracks
for a moment and cock an ear. Backfire it well may be, the twenty-two-year
veteran of walking a beat knew, but in Little Italy, the home turf of too many
mobsters and their little fiefdoms and rival “social clubs” it could just as
easily be a gun. The Italians liked nothing better than settling their scores with
bullets and brass knuckles, O’Connor thought. Not like the Irish, who at least
had the courtesy to sit down for a drink before commencing to pummeling one
another.

He
listened for a full ten seconds and when there was no follow-up shots or
screams or shouts, the officer nodded in satisfaction and resumed his solitary
late night stroll down Mulberry Street. Potsy O’Connor knew he had been put on
the graveyard shift as a punishment for mouthing off to the idiot young shift
sergeant whose father had friends high places, but he had been surprised to
discover he liked the quiet and solitude of the night. Sure, the shift had a
few frantic hours, from midnight until the bars and clubs closed, but mostly it
was a whole lot of nothing besides rattling doorknobs, rousting drunks and bums
out of doorways, and the occasional domestic call. Every once in a while, some
knucklehead burglarized a place, but unless he was caught in the act by the
law, the victim was more likely to go to the neighborhood godfather to whom he
paid regular protection money for help. The bosses would not only find the
thief and recover the stolen goods, but also deliver an apology from the
crook’s own bloodied lips.

Of
course, such vigilantism, along with much else of what went on in the streets
and alleyways of Little Italy being of questionable legality, O’Connor was
often forced to look the other way to insure his continued tranquility. The
bosses showed their appreciation for this courtesy in the form of a five dollar
bill slipped to him every week in the locker room by the precinct bagman.
O’Connor, husband and father to four youngsters still living under his roof,
was in return grateful for the help in feeding his brood.

Whistling
tunelessly and absently twirling his nightstick by its leather thing, O’Connor
turned onto Grand Street. He glanced into darkened storefronts and stopped to
test the locks on a few doors. Everything was exactly as it should be at the
hour, locked up tight, dark, and quiet.

The
second shot came more than a minute after the first.

It
was also closer.

And
it was no backfire.

Johnny
O’Connor pulled his revolver from under his blue tunic and dug for the brass
whistle in his breast pocket. More shots followed. Several guns. Handguns from
the sounds of things.

O’Connor
hesitated a fraction of a second. The nearest callbox was down the street to
the east. The gunfire was coming from the west. He ran west, blowing his whistle
in long, shrill blasts to call any other coppers in earshot to come running. As
if the shooting wouldn’t have already attracted their attention.

By
the time he reached the corner of Baxter Street, the whistle was clenched in
his left fist, his service revolver in the right, and his breath coming in
short, choppy gasps. Shots were still being fired, but less of them. Then they
stopped altogether.

That’s
when the screaming began.

It
brought Potsy up short. These weren’t the screams of the wounded and pained; he
had heard enough of those on the battlefields of France during the Great War to
know. These were screams of horror. Of gut-wrenching fear. Sounds no sane man
could possibly produce!

His
heart beating like a drum, O’Connor forced himself forward, hugging the brick
wall of the corner, his .38 thrust before him like a shield in a quivering
fist.

Baxter
Street looked deserted, a stretch of dead of night darkness slashed by the harsh
glare of street lights, deepening the shadows and making them seem to shimmer
and move. The screams were coming from those shadows...

O’Connor
knew he had to do something. It sounded like men were being torn to bits by
some silent creature in the dark. And help, he feared, was still too far away
to make any difference to those poor bastards!

Gulping
down his fear and offering up a prayer, Potsy O’Connor threw himself around the
corner screaming “Stop! Police! Everybody freeze!” and fired a warning shot
into the street.

He
ran forward, still shouting commands he was sure couldn’t be heard over the
screams. He wanted to keep firing his gun, to ward off whatever might be hiding
in the shadows, but the rationale part of his brain kept his finger from tightening
on the trigger. He was going to need those shots and there would be no time for
reloading...

The
screaming stopped as abruptly as it began. The sudden transition to silence was
startling.

O’Connor
stopped.

Ahead
of him, an inky swirl of blackness started to pull away from the shadows in the
deep doorway of a Chinese laundry.

The
officer took aim.

“Police!”
he shouted. He was surprised at how commanding he sounded.

The
blackness broke off and became a shape, a man in a long dark overcoat. The shape
moved slowly, deliberately, his arms held out from his sides. Something dangled
from his hands, loose and floppy. Not a weapon. Nothing threatening.

But
it made Johnson’s heart thump uncontrollably and his stomach churn.

“I...I
said police! Stop right there!”

The
man paid no attention to the orders. He moved from blackness to the gray
haziness on the fringe of the streetlight’s glow. Details began to resolve
themselves: a bald pate, spotted with age. One shoulder higher than the other.
A limp in the slow, steady gait. A gaunt, wrinkled cheek slashed with scars and
paint. A pale yellow eye that momentarily caught the light.

Raw,
bleeding hunks of flesh hanging from withered, gnarled fingers!

“Father,
son, and holy ghost,” gasped Johnson.

The
old man raised his right hand into the circle of light and pointed a finger at
the trembling police officer. Johnson’s eyes went wide.

Were
those...human scalps?

“Give
your prayers to the earth,” the old man said, his voice surprisingly young and
strong.

Something
punched Potsy Johnson hard in the chest.

He
looked down. A long, slender shaft of wood with a feathered tail stuck straight
out of the middle of the badge pinned to his tunic.

“For
that is to be your next home,” the old man said, and turned to walk away even
as the officer slumped to the pavement. His revolver dropped from numbed
fingers and he thought, not without some surprise, that he was probably the
first New York copper ever to be killed in the line of duty by an Indian
with a bow and arrow.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

It's here at last...Archie The Married Life: Volume 1, collecting the first six issues of the Life With Archie: The Married Life Magazine. That's six stories (the first issues of Archie Loves Veronica and Archie Loves Betty were written by Michael Uslan; the rest is all me) of what's been called "the most critically acclaimed storyline in Archie Comics history," 320 big pages of art by Norm Breyfogle, Joe Rubinstein, and Andrew Pepoy, a few introductory pieces by Michael and myself, all for $19.99!

Also hitting comic shops is Betty & Veronica #255, which features a short story I wrote, "Beach Blanket Bash-Up," with art by Jeff Shultz and Jim Amash. Betty versus Veronica in a secret beach Olympics with Archie as the prize!

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

It's all revealed in the hard-hitting "B.F.F....Not!" in Jughead Double Digest #173, in comic shops tomorrow. I wrote it, my old friend and Vigilante colleague Tod Smith penciled it, another old friend and colleague (he inked one of the first half dozen stories I wrote for DC Comics many, many moons ago), Al Milgrom inked it.

Monday, August 8, 2011

According to Topless Robot, the pop culture website of the Village Voice:

"...If you aren't reading Life with Archie you are truly missing out on some serious insanity. For my money it's the most consistently entertaining comic being written right now. Archie fans old and new would be doing themselves a favor by checking it out."

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

I just received in the mail my comp copies of the new Aquaman: Death of a Prince trade paperback from DC Comics. It features the entire saga of the birth and death of Arthur Curry Jr., aka Aquababy between 1974 and 1978.

I was assigned to write Aquaman after having written two different back-up features, one starring Aqualad (Adventure Comics #453 - 455), and another featuring Mera's search for the missing baby in Aquaman #57 - 59. My first issue was Aquaman #62 (June-July 1978). My last was #63 (Sept.-Oct. 1978), whereupon the title was cancelled. But that issue did wrap up the whole storyline and I did get to rack up my first comic book fatality. Plus write the character for a few more stories when the Aquaman featured jumped over to the new, giant-sized Dollar Comics format.

Monday, June 6, 2011

I'll be a guest at the Scranton Comic Book Convention in (where else?) Scranton, PA this coming Sunday, June 12! This will be my first time attending, but it look to be a good old-fashioned one-day local show and I'm looking forward to it.

Also appearing are Archie artist Dan Parent, Marvel artist Dave Hoover, artist Rudy Nebres, DC writer C.J. Henderson, and about a dozen more writers and artists from all over.

I'll have a table from which I'll be talking, selling, and signing! Admission is $3.00, hours are 10:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., and the location is Johnson College, 3427 North Main Avenue, Scranton PA 18508 (exit 190 off of I-81). If you're in the neighborhood, I hope to see you there!

Friday, June 3, 2011

I've just put my three eBooks up on Amazon.com at new, lower prices. Check 'em out, buy a book (or three) if you're so inclined by clicking on the Amazon links to the right, and support a starving writer.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Waaay back in 1988 I wrote a miniseries for DC Comics starring the Joe Gill/Pat Boyette-created character, Peacemaker. Peacemaker was originally published by Charlton Comics in 1966 as part of editor Dick Giordano's "Action Hero Line" and lasted only a couple of years. Years later, DC acquired the rights to the Charlton Comics heroes (nearly losing them to Alan Moore's whim in the 1980s, had his Watchmen gone as originally conceived), and I have managed, happily, to be involved with many of these characters over the year as both writer and editor.

I got my shot at Peacemaker in the pages of Vigilante, where he was portrayed as a dangerous psycho who listened to the voices of the people he had killed who spoke to him via his helmet. In 1988, I spun him off in the aforementioned miniseries (with artists Tod Smith and Pablo Marcos), which was a total psychotic, blood-spattered romp against international terrorism. The voice in his head/helmet now belonged to his deceased and unrepentant Nazi father, and my editor's marching orders to me had been to push the envelope on crazy and violent.

DC has just posted the entire 4-issue Peacemaker miniseries online for download at .99¢ each via it's DC Comics app for the iPhone and Android devices, as well as at Comixology.com.

It was, someone in DC Digital told me the other day, sick enough that it was "a book that had to wait for the market sensibility to catch up with it."

It's 1951 and the comic book industry is undergoing a recession that's sent half the writers and artists in New York to the streets scrambling for the work that remains. Among that number is writer Max Wiser, former pulp scribe and son of a legendary N.Y.P.D. homicide cop, on whose life Wiser based his bestselling pulp stories. When the industry's top writer dies in an accidental drunken tumble from a subway train that proves to have been murder, Max is plunged into a world of lies and conspiracy...discovering that there is often a fine line between real life and the pulp fiction around which he has built his life. Especially after the beautiful blonde mistress of the murdered man works her way into his life...and as the death toll mounts, Max Wiser learns that even in the cliche-ridden world of comics and the pulps, there's really no such thing as The Same Old Story...

And Then I Wrote...

Paul Kupperberg is

the writer of the best-selling and critically-acclaimed Life With Archie: The Married Life Magazine for Archie Comics. He is also the writer of hundreds of books, stories, comic books, and newspaper comic strips. He has written such comic book characters as Superman, Superboy, Supergirl, Vigilante, Power Girl, Aquaman, Green Lantern, Doom Patrol, Captain America, Conan, Captain Action, Archie, The Simpsons, Johnny Bravo, Scooby Doo, and dozens of others. He is the creator of the comic series ArionLord of Atlantis, Checkmate, and Takion, has written on-line web animation, the syndicated Superman and Tom & Jerry newspaper strips, the feature "Trash" for England’s 2000 A.D. magazine, humor and parody for Marvel’s Crazy Magazine and Weekly World News, stories featuring Star Trek, Dr. Who, the Phantom, Batman and the Green Hornet, as well as stories for various fantasy and horror anthologies, more than a dozen young adult non-fiction books on subjects ranging from history and science to biography and pop culture, the Spider-Man novels Crime Campaign and Murdermoon for Pocket Books, the young adult novel Wishbone: The Sirian Conspiracy (with Michael Jan Friedman), the humor book Jew-Jitsu: The Hebrew Hands of Fury, the novel JSA: Ragnarok, and storybooks featuring Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman for Stone Arch Books. Paul has also been an Editor for DC Comics, Executive Editor of Weekly World News and Senior Editor of World Wrestling Entertainment’s WWE Kids Magazine.

I didn't write it but i AM be writing the sequel, LIFE WITH ARCHIE: THE MARRIED LIFE

Disclaimer and Dat

The opinions expressed here are those of the author, who is solely responsible for this blog's editorial content. They do not reflect the views of any publication or production to which the writer has contributed nor any corporation by which he may have been employed.